


His Brother Sent Him A Goldfish

by Dreamin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Presents, F/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 08:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15360366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamin/pseuds/Dreamin
Summary: It's Sherlock's birthday and Mycroft knows exactly what he needs.





	His Brother Sent Him A Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



> In honor of Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday.

Sherlock looked out the window at the snowy field and the line of bare trees beyond it. By the angle of the light, he knew the time was early afternoon, and he knew the date was sometime in early January since the fireworks that had announced the new year had petered out a few days before. Beyond that, he neither knew nor cared what day it was.

What he did know was that he had been away from his beloved London and even more beloved friends for too bloody long. It had taken faking his own death and a self-imposed manhunt of Moriarty’s men to make him appreciate what he had left behind – Mrs. Hudson, who treated him like the son she never had; Graham, who gave him the Work that kept his mind occupied; John, who helped (forced, really) him be a better person; and Molly.

He felt a tightening in his chest at the thought of her, but he quickly squelched it, just like every other time. Thinking about her would only distract him and he had a job to do.

 _Admit it, Sherlock,_ a voice in his head that sounded exactly like Mycroft said. _You want to give up and go back to London, back to Molly._

 _I can’t go “back” to Molly since I was never with her in the first place,_ he countered, his mood darkening.

_You’ve wasted so many years._

_I’m well aware of that, thank you._

The burn phone Mycroft had given him just before he left chirped. Desperate for any sort of human contact, he picked it up from its place on the coffee table.

**I do hope you have a fish tank in that safe house of yours. Happy Birthday, little brother. MH**

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and was typing out a reply when there was a knock on the front door. Instantly on full alert, he slid the mobile into the pocket of his jeans then went to the door. One glance through the peephole and he was throwing open the door then ushering the woman in front of him inside.

As soon as she and her bags were safely inside, he shut the door then stared at her, deductions flying through his head.

 _Molly Hooper just flew twelve sleepless hours to be with me. It was extremely short notice, she barely had time to get dressed. No make-up, just a quick comb through her hair, but she has never looked lovelier. Obviously, my brother is behind this – that text was his idea of giving me advance notice._ Still, the one thing he couldn’t figure out was her motive. “What … what are you doing here, Molly?”

“Mycroft asked a favor,” she said as she took off her mittens, hat, scarf, coat, and boots. She stuffed the scarf and mittens into the hat then stuffed the hat into one of the coat sleeves before handing it to Sherlock, who hung it on the coat tree by the door. “He made it sound like you were sick or something, but you look perfectly fine to me … so I have no idea why I’m here, really.”

“What exactly did he say?” Sherlock asked, his suspicion rising.

“He said, ‘My brother needs you to be at his optimal best right now.’” Her imitation of his brother was spot-on, though he’d never tell her so.

Sherlock groaned quietly. “As hard as it is to believe, the Iceman is playing matchmaker.” Suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, he headed for the kitchen.

It took a couple of heartbeats then Molly practically ran into the room, her eyes wide. “You … he … matchmaker?”

He found himself unable to look at her, knowing that if he did, he’d be lost in her big brown eyes. Instead, he busied himself with making sandwiches. “Yes. Mycroft is under the impression, delusion, really, that I need to see you often, if not daily, to be at my best.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Well, if you don’t need me, then I can be on the first flight back tomorrow morning.”

Something in him immediately started to panic and he whirled around to face her. “No, don’t!”

She stared at him. “Sherlock … I took time out of my work and life to cross an ocean and half a continent to be here because I was told you needed me. You obviously don’t, which makes Mycroft a liar and me a damn fool. Again. Still.” Her voice broke with her last words and tears filled her eyes.

“Molly…” He sighed quietly then slowly approached her. “Forgive me. I’ve been pushing what it is I truly need away for so long that I can’t see it even when it’s right in front of me.”

She moved closer, hope dawning in her eyes. “What do you need, Sherlock?” she asked softly.

“You.”

* * *

Late that night, Sherlock lightly stroked Molly’s hair as they lay in bed together.

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock,” she murmured sleepily, her eyes closed.

“The best I’ve ever had,” he murmured.


End file.
